


save the world, get the girl, blah blah blah

by orphan_account



Series: Gap Year (oracle series spinoff) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming of Age, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Irene shows up. lots of minor appearances, John and Mycroft make appearances, Magic school au!!!, NSY chars make appearances, Sherlock centric, Sherlolly endgame, Teenlock, it’s a no-Eurus-verse, mentions of past mystrade and molliarty, sherlock/the ocean, so let sherlock be the pirate he’s always wanted to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14280741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock is 10 when his older brother declares that Sherlock is destined to be a hero, and then he never speaks to him again.He falls in love with no one but the sea. He grows up. He doesn't give heroism even a passing thought. He learns how to be wrong.





	save the world, get the girl, blah blah blah

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take You Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132016) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> So this came about while I was thinking about my Molliarty-magic-school-AU, and I wanted to see a version where the story diverged and we got a Sherlolly ending that this came about. It ended up being incredibly (kid)Sherlock-centric. I very much do think this is an AU of that AU, not that this is the eventual ending of the previous story, where Molly and Jim are together forever and the happiest. These are separate universes/timelines.

_ Dear John,  _

 

_ I disagree with your claim that collecting soil samples will be a ‘lousy use of our free time!’ but will concede one (1) beach trip as compromise. Molly has already written her agreement to this deal.  _

 

_ Sherlock Holmes _

 

_ - _

 

_ Dear Molly, _

 

_ Thank you for backing my sample gathering excursion and explaining to John that it doubles as a hiking trip. I don’t care what kind of sandwiches you want to pack. But tell John that we should plan the beach trip for when it is not too crowded.  _

 

_ Forest trips can be taken any and every other weekend because it is close to the Academy grounds. I agree that we should search for signs of the Firebird.  _

 

_ Sherlock Holmes _

 

_ PS _

_ I mean that I will eat any of the sandwiches. _

 

-

 

The summer before Sherlock starts his first year at the Academy is one of his most memorable. Top three, definitely.

 

He remembers being  _ so _ excited to finally get to  _ go _ somewhere and  _ do  _ something, and John and Molly will be there too, so he just knows they’re going to have so many adventures.

 

In fact, they’d spent all summer corresponding and planning out excursions and explorations. 

 

But best of all, attending the Academy meant being given a Quest. For many young and aspiring sorcerers, this sounded like the kick off, the beginning, of the rest of their lives.

 

Sherlock is actually just on his way back from dropping off two such adventure-planning letters to his friends (his parents insist on annual trips to this godforsaken vacation home out in the middle of nowhere) when he stops short in the kitchen seeing someone barely recognizable sitting at the table.

 

There is a tall, lanky man a dozen years his senior but looking world-weary in a way that ages him even more, right in the middle of the kitchen.

 

“ _ Mummy?” _ Sherlock calls out from the doorway. There is a strange man in the house. Sitting at the kitchen table between Sherlock at the living room. He is making the whole kitchen smell of smoke.

 

But then he turns to give Sherlock an almost arrogant glance, and Sherlock recognizes his older brother immediately. 

 

“ _ Mycroft??”  _ Sherlock asks, aghast, taking in the ill-fitting suit (new-ish) and how much his brother has changed in the months since they’ve last laid eyes on each other.

 

Evidently, he has traded sweets for cigarettes.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes come into the kitchen with welcomes at the ready and tell Sherlock and Mycroft how  _ isn’t it wonderful _ that Mycroft’s now got such an important post with the Ministry? And  _ look Sherlock, you’ll be seeing him again at school, won’t that be nice? _

 

They wear tight, apprehensive smiles, like they understand that Mycroft’s assignment is an honor, but an unusual and tasking one, so they are supposedly celebrating, but unsure of what exactly they are celebrating. With this post, they'll hardly ever see their son again. Mycroft’s as good as given his life over to service (the  _ secret _ one, whatever that means).

 

It takes a few moments of overlapping chatter and small talk and cautious questions before Sherlock finally works out what is going on.

 

Mycroft’s the new Oracle.

 

Sherlock makes a face of total disgust. Of course. Why shouldn’t Mycroft be the Oracle! Leave it to his big fat brother to ruin the one thing he was looking forward to, even from afar. 

 

Ugh.

 

-

 

Two weeks later, Sherlock trudges up the dirt path from the school to the mountain, dragging his feet behind Molly and John.

 

During the first week of enrollment at the Academy of Magic and Sciences, every student makes a trip up to the neighboring mountains and into the Cave of the Oracle, where they will meet a wise sage who will present the student, the young sorcerer in training, with a Quest.

  
Effectively, this is their life mission. Their roadmap to their future and greatest accomplishment. A prophetic call to action. 

 

Some people get totally mundane quests, and it is really of no consequence whether they accomplish it or not. Others get, frankly, epic ones. Real hero-type stuff.

 

Sherlock has secretly prayed for one, and now he worries Mycroft will ruin it all.

 

_ Mycroft,  _ his brother. The older one. The bigger one. The smarter one. The one who was bound to succeed at whatever he chose to do with his life, like it was a given, because Mycroft was so  _ capable. _

 

Sherlock’s one spot of good luck is that no one knows who his brother is. None of them will recognize Mycroft, and Mycroft is unlikely to tell the little students whose fates he is predicting that his own younger brother is their peer. It would be weird and unprofessional of him.

 

So at least no one will begrudge Sherlock when Mycroft gives them a Quest they don't like.

 

The three of them make it onto the little plateau at the mouth of the cave and the nervousness sets in. They discuss hypotheticals and Quests in an abstract sense, each hoping the other one will volunteer to go first, or that they will somehow muster up that courage themselves.

 

John turns out to muster it up first, and immediately Sherlock is kicking himself for letting his anger at Mycroft butting into his life yet again get in the way of his destiny. 

 

Because, you see, Sherlock has always known in his heart of hearts he is going to do something great. Something good. Something meaningful. And the Oracle was meant to point him in the right direction.

 

So if that Oracle just happened to be his annoying big brother? So be it.

 

When John comes back out, Sherlock hangs onto his every word when be relays his Quest. It sounds like a noble mission. A good one. A good one for John.

 

Then, not letting fear or doubt swallow him again, Sherlock darts into the cave to meet his fate face on.

 

His steps echo through the tunnel, and then he smells Mycroft’s presence before he sees him.

 

It's a foggy room, no doubt created with the help of a fog machine, but the humidity is not enough to mask his brother’s newfound smoking habit.

 

“That's a nasty habit you've picked up, Mycroft,” Sherlock says by way of greeting.

 

Mycroft looms over him, for some reason with an umbrella in hand, and ignores the slight.

 

“Hello, brother mine.”

 

Sherlock bristles. Leave it to Mycroft to know how to take a polite greeting and use it to hit on Sherlock's most sensitive nerve. He didn't want to see or talk to his  _ brother _ , he wanted a meeting with the Oracle.

 

Sherlock purses his lips, and Mycroft reads that all too well too.

 

“Congratulations,” he tells Sherlock with a tight smile. “It seems fate’s bestowed a rather great one on you.”

 

Sherlock can't keep himself from retorting.

 

“What, save the world, get the girl, blah blah blah?”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft replies.

 

Sherlock waits.

 

Mycroft doesn't elaborate. Then he quirks a brow to convey that he won't elaborate, that he's said all he's meant to say, if Sherlock’s going to be a brat about it. 

 

Sherlock makes a noise of frustration, and storms out.

 

Afterward, he sulks, basking in his regret. 

 

He refuses to explain what went down in the cave, and barely hears what Molly says about her own Quest. Something about a date and a soulmate. It would have been much more interesting if she were meant to take out a villain. She sounds confident about it all, though, so good for her, Sherlock supposes.

 

Desolate as he is, he refuses to re-enter the cave.

 

-

 

Thankfully, a whole slew of wonderful things await Sherlock back on campus.

 

There are new classes to take, where they study the great sorcerers of history, the poetics of spellcasting, and the molecular makeup of potions

 

There are new spells to learn, like writing variable equations for counteracting gravity at different rates, and breathing light into mice so they glow in the dark, and capturing strands of wind to turn into homing spells for secret letters and finding things. 

 

There is a massive labyrinth of a library filled with new books to read, and Sherlock is quickly amassing an ever-growing list of new experiments to try out.

 

And most of all, best of all, there are his friends, John and Molly, there to undertake this new adventure with him, and to support each other every step of the way.

 

“Are you alright?” Molly asks two days after their trip up the mountain, at lunch, as they eat their pasta.

 

Sherlock gives her a slow, sideways glance, and then sets down his fork.

 

“Yes?” he answers hesitantly. He’s never quite sure what Molly means when she asks this. But when Molly asks, there is always  _ something.  _ He doesn’t know how she notices these things before him. She gives him a one-shouldered shrug in reply to his unvoiced question of ‘about what?’

 

“You’ve been a bit quiet lately. Ever since, the, you know, the quests. I mean, you’re always a bit living inside your head, really, but, you know,” Molly says. 

 

Sherlock picks up his fork again and pushes the sauce around.

 

He  _ has _ been thinking about the Quest. But. He has so much more to think about now too.

 

The Quest could wait. 

 

Sherlock nods, with a bit more resolve this time. 

 

In light of all this, all the learning and exploring and all the things to do, Sherlock thinks, as he casts a spell that blows up a frog and sends the little thing puffed up with air and flying around the classroom, the sting of his failure before the Oracle (it sure feels like a failure) doesn’t hurt so much anymore.

 

-

 

Even the dreaded beach trip is an incredible success.

 

Two weeks in, the trio decide to catch the last vestiges of summer by the seaside, and make a trip to the beach as they promised John they would.

 

Once there, John hands each of them a snorkeling mask with no small amount of pride. It’s a gift, he explains, as he’d had the opportunity to scuba dive over summer holiday, and wanted to share the experience with Molly and Sherlock.

 

They take the masks, and Sherlock’s world forever changes. 

 

Past the grainy bits of sand, past the foamy churn of the waves that crash repeatedly onto the beach, is a world he had no idea existed.

 

There are critters and creatures and an entire ecosystem down here, unmarred and uncaring of the rest of the world.

 

Under the water, there is  _ life. _

 

Sherlock is stunned, fascinated, as a Strawberry Jellyfish nonchalantly bobbles by him. He curiously reaches out, careful not to touch as per John’s brief safety talk prior to the dive, and tries his hand at a neutralizing spell. Something to negate the toxins and calm the electrodes, rendering the animal safe to touch. Safe to peel open and spread across a piece of toast. 

 

But it’s tricky, and Sherlock is unpracticed in spellcasting underwater. 

 

It presents a wonderful challenge.

 

Eventually, he lets the jellyfish go, and wriggles his way through the water to explore what he can of the rest of the reef.

 

The colors, the pressure, the roar of the ocean is the polar opposite of the city, from what he remembers of day trips to London. He thinks he could live here, maybe.

 

A little yellow thing with blue fins separates itself from the group and goes up, up, and Sherlock follows. All of a sudden, he remembers he has to break out of the surface, so that he can breathe. 

 

He is not a fish, after all.

 

When he finally drags his body back to shore, emerging from the water as if he was slowly learning to walk again, he pulls off the goggles to see that John and Molly are a ways away, already munching on sandwiches. 

 

They wave at him. Sherlock waves back.

 

“You had fun,” Molly comments, when he gets close enough. Sherlock nods. 

  
John grins.

 

“I told you so.”

 

Sherlock grins back. John is often wrong, but when he is right, he is the most right. 

 

A few days later, Sherlock forgoes his pasta for a book about coral reefs kicking his feet back and forth as he reads, and Molly nudges him in the leg with her knee.

 

“No longer blue, huh?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

-

 

“You like worms, don’t you Sherlock?” 

 

“It’s why he always smells like  _ mud. _ ”

 

The other children jeer and laugh and a much younger Sherlock curls himself into an even smaller ball on the soggy ground. He’d been pushed down steep little incline, until he rolled all the way down to the bank of the creek, and now they were throwing handfuls of dirt and wet leaves at him.

 

He doesn’t even know  _ why. _

 

Sherlock had been walking by himself, long accustomed to the fact that the other children wouldn’t play with him, and wouldn’t even reject him nicely if he asked. Then he’d bent down to examine a particularly shiny beetle when all of a sudden he was pelted with something soggy and heavy and his the back of his head with a  _ splat! _

 

It’d knocked him down on his bum and before he could turn around to see who threw the offending item (a rotted apple they must have found on the ground), he was being pushed and shoved and then rolled down the grass and down to the creek.

 

He hadn’t even  _ done _ anything to them.

 

Eventually, the kids leave, but Sherlock doesn’t. He doesn’t even move. Just stays there, cold and soaked, and rolled up into a tiny ball. His back is drenched in creek water, and his face is stained with tears. 

 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears the voice of another boy, not from the first group, approaching from not far away.

 

“Molly, I think I see someone,” he calls out behind him. Footsteps. Running. A gasp.

 

“Is he dead?” A girl’s voice. Sherlock doesn’t look up.

 

“He’s not  _ dead _ , Molly! Don’t be creepy. Let’s go see if he’s okay.”

 

“He is clearly  _ not _ okay.”

 

“Yeah, alright.”

 

More footsteps, and then two small humans are crouched beside Sherlock. He squeezes his eyes closed even tighter, and wills himself not to move.

 

“Can you get up?” the boy asks.

 

“I’ve got a handkerchief,” comes a quieter, higher voice. 

 

They pause, evidently expecting Sherlock to reply. 

He opens his eyes very slowly. 

 

A boy and a girl smile at him.

 

-

 

Sherlock and Molly (the girl with the ponytail, his mind labels) and John (the boy with the sweater) walk slowly upstream, because Molly’s house is the closest, and she has promised all of them cocoa.

 

The handkerchief in her hand looks completely muddy and done for, but Sherlock’s face is clean. The coat Sherlock and John are carrying between the two of them is drenched and feels like it weighs as much as Sherlock himself.

 

“Why do they hate me?” he asks. 

 

John gives Sherlock a worried look, unsure of how much honesty he’s looking for here. But Molly just shrugs.

 

“Kids don’t really need a reason to be mean,” she replies matter-of-factly. 

 

Sherlock frowns, evidently unpleased with this answer. 

 

“That means there’s nothing wrong with you,” Molly elaborates. 

 

He glances at her, and she looks completely sincere. Sherlock turns to John, too, and he nods his agreement. 

 

They don’t say anything more until they reach the end of the creek and turn so that they can walk up the hill, and there is Molly’s house just a stone’s throw away.

 

“Okay,” Sherlock finally says.

 

-

 

The fifth weekend at school, when Sherlock suggests a beach trip, John and Molly give him funny looks, and then tease him mercilessly.

 

Because that’s what friends are for.

 

“I thought you hated getting sand in your shoes,” John says, and Molly grins.

 

“I won’t  _ wear _ shoes,” Sherlock says with an eyeroll.

 

John just shrugs and raises his eyebrows. 

 

“I’m just saying,” he says, and Molly looks like she’s about to burst out cackling, “that was your lousy excuse last time.”

 

Sherlock just gives them flat look and goes back to his book about deep sea exploration. 

 

The woods are good too, lots of fungi to collect, but too many people are running around snapping twigs, chasing the Firebird (it’s not even anyone’s quest, hasn’t been for two centuries); but the ocean is his.

 

Sherlock reads about great white whales and giant squid and Nessie and the Kraken and the fact that we’ve scarcely uncovered 5 percent of the entirety of the waters on this big round planet during all the millennia we’ve been here and—wow. 

 

Life there is unlike anything else. Unlike anywhere else.

 

Why bother trying to get to space, when you’ve got unfathomable depths, right here? Right beneath you.

 

Sherlock emerges from the water, arms full, and runs straight toward his approaching friends. Neither of them look surprised he’s already gotten himself all drenched not two minutes into the trip. 

 

“Let’s build a boat,” Sherlock says, stopping in front of Molly and John and waving his arms with some flourish, dropping the armful of driftwood pieces he’d collected. They’d get so much further with a boat. 

 

“Um,” Molly says.

 

“Let’s not,” John says, eyeing first the flimsy pieces of driftwood Sherlock has collected, and then the sturdy looking sailboat on the other side. There was an obvious choice here.

 

-

 

Sherlock spends some time running back and forth between the sail and the head of the ship and looking into the water and making some notes, and eventually even he is a bit tired out. John is fishing. Molly is watching the water, and she pats the seat next to her. Sherlock takes the seat.

 

He blows a lock of hair out of his face.

 

“I think I want to be a deep sea explorer,” he tells Molly. 

 

“Like in a submarine?” she asks.

 

“Maybe.”

 

This is a good life path, Sherlock decides. The Quest isn’t so important now, not when he has the sea. Schoolwork is secondary, too, only interesting when it helps further his knowledge in how to get to the ocean floor. 

 

A submarine is one option, sure, but it’s so big and unwieldy. He starts learning how to build. A fifth year student in the engineering club shows him how to solder spells into pieces of metal he’s welding together. An art teacher with some architecture experience marks up a blueprint of his, and suggests some questions he might bring to a professor of physics. 

 

The obsession with engineering something agile, covert, and able to withstand six miles of water pressure continues through the summer and into the next year. 

 

Sherlock is working on another drawing when a boy he hasn’t seen before takes a seat beside him in class and pokes his head over like he has no concept of personal space.

 

“What are you drawing?” he asks. “A robot?”

 

Sherlock shies away from him, not even looking up.

 

“No,” he says.

 

Later, at lunch, some boy waves at them and Sherlock realizes it’s the same boy, some new kid that transferred just this year. Molly waves back and John introduces himself too, but Sherlock doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to. 

 

“What? Why don’t you like him, Sherlock?” Molly asks. It’s pasta again and Sherlock wonders if the school ever serves anything else, or if he only notices what they’re eating when it’s pasta. His data set may be skewed. 

 

He twists his mouth up at Molly’s question, because he doesn’t really know why, but the new student is strange and he doesn’t like it.

 

“I don’t want to sit with him,” he says instead. Molly gives him that half shrug of her’s and goes back to discussing with John about what after school clubs to join. 

 

The new student smiles a lot, kind of like Molly, except he’s a liar, and Molly’s definitely not a liar. He’s a strange sort of person and one that Sherlock doesn’t have time for, so he brushes him off.

 

But Molly’s question is upsetting too. He loses his appetite and ends up heading to the library so the rest of his lunch period is not a waste.

 

He picks a history book this time, to take a break from mentally sorting out mechanics, and ends up grabbing something with a wooden boat and some waves on the cover.

 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock’s eyes are wide as saucers and he misses the start of Potions class because he is so engrossed.

 

_ Vikings. _

 

-

 

Sherlock’s blueprints and drawings gather dust in his room his second year as he devours Norse mythology the way Fenrir devoured everything in his path in the last of days. 

 

History is like a treasure map, Sherlock learns, and mythologies point to the lost gold and jewels hidden in the crevices of the everyday. Suddenly the mountains and maps he sees everyday tell new stories, and words and objects have origins that tell new secrets.

 

He nearly forgets about his Quest, until he reads about heroes and Valhalla and Ragnarok and thinks,  _ I want that too.  _ That adventure, that heroism.

 

Then he remembers it. That's exactly what his Quest is, except at the same time, he has no idea what his Quest is.

 

Sherlock is in one of what he knows Molly and John call his “sulking moods” (how is his sulking different from others’?) when Molly brings up the school dance over lunch. Sherlock didn’t even know the school had a dance.

 

“I’m taking Andrea,” John says. Sherlock didn’t even know they knew an Andrea. 

 

Molly and John look at him questioningly. 

 

“What?” Sherlock says when he realizes they’re waiting for an answer. “I’m not  _ going _ .”

 

John sighs and Molly pouts and Sherlock hopes they’re not expecting him to change his mind because he’s certainly not going to, especially not once he learns what night it’s on.

 

There’s a school dance on the 17th and Molly is going with Jim (whoever that is) and John is going with Andrea (from art class). 

 

Sherlock has a date too, with the moon, because it’s a very low tide day and there is a little wading pool by a seaside cave he has been dying to get into. This is the one day of the year he can actually get into it without, y’know,  _ actually _ dying. 

 

This is a cave where a storied Viking several centuries ago supposedly hid out in after a shipwreck and, in his saltwater induced hallucinations, saw a vision of his people's’ future. Weeks later, he was rescued, and during a dire battle, his vision came to fruition, and he knew exactly how to win and save them all.

 

Sherlock is hoping for similar mystical powers of prophecy on this trip.

 

It doesn’t happen.

 

He wades into the cave and the water laps at the entrance, but otherwise the cave is tall enough for him to stand in and walk around without even getting wet. 

 

Sherlock pokes around and watches the vermillion crabs scuttle about with their pebbles, and then lights a very dim light (so as to not disturb the cave life) to explore the back of what is essentially a hollowed out giant rock.

 

There are more rocks and sticks and some starfish too, and Sherlock makes a face of disgust when he finds a plastic wrapper covering one of them, bunching it up in his hand and shoving it into his pocket to dispose of elsewhere. As he does, something glitters and catches his eye.

 

He bends down to brush away the sand and dirt and kelp, and finds what he is looking for. A small, smooth, round thing. He grabs it and holds it up to his face, bringing the light closer so he can see it.

 

A gold coin.

 

Spanish, 14th century.

 

Sherlock pockets it, and then continues rummaging around. Slowly, though, and careful not to step on any critters.

 

Then something else catches the light.

 

Sherlock turns around and wades through the shallow water the other way, toward the opposite wall of the cave, where something shiny washed up in the water. Sherlock hopes it’s not another wrapper.

 

He bends down with the light, and sees a dull silvery looking thing. 

 

He picks it up only to find it’s mostly covered in gunk that he has to use both hands to scrape off. He holds his wand by his teeth to do so, because if it’s valuable this will require care and finesse, and after several minutes finally unearths what appears to be a pocket watch.

 

Sherlock frowns, turning it over in his hand. There is a faded engraving of what looks like a little island on the front. He pops it open. 

 

There is an engraving inside. Three lines. Possibly Greek. He can’t read it; he'll have to look it up.

 

At the bottom there is the same engraving as the little island in the front, except it’s bigger and more detailed, and only the bottom portion of the island. There is a little ‘x’ marking one spot. 

 

A light bulb goes off in his head.

 

_ Buried treasure.  _ Actual, tangible treasure, not just of the knowledge sort. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

 

Best date ever.

 

-

 

Sherlock takes out the watch in class the next day, turning it over and wondering if he should get it repaired and working again. 

 

He's snuck it out to look at for the fifth time when Molly cups her hand around her mouth and whispers. 

 

“Psst. Sherlock. What is that?” Molly asks.

 

John, sitting one row up but turned around at the whisper, looks curious too.

 

“Pirate’s treasure,” Sherlock whispers back.

 

They both look impressed. 

 

-

 

The inscription, once translated, is a huge disappointment.

 

_ Your voice sweeter than wine, your gaze spellbinding, _

_ By the goddess! I am captivated, intoxicated _

_ and yours forever _

 

It's some dumb love poem that must have been given as a gift, and the map probably marks some location of romantic significance for this long-dead couple whom Sherlock cares nothing about.

 

He declares as such in his room, where Molly and John are sitting with him on the floor with an atlas and Greek-English dictionary and some papers and pencils.

 

“I think it's romantic,” Molly says, taking the watch from John, who has been examining it himself, turning the dial back and forth.

 

“You keep it then,” Sherlock gripes.

 

“Really?”

 

“I want this useless thing out of my sight,” he adds emphatically. John rolls his eyes and Molly gives him a one-shouldered shrug before pocketing the thing.

 

This disappointing event only sets the tone for the rest of the school year, and their third year turns out to be the most uneventful one of them all.

 

To make matters worse, the roads heading west of the school grounds are under construction, which means Sherlock is sequestered all year. Land bound. No chance to go seaside until summer.

 

-

 

But  _ fourth year. _ Fourth year is  _ great _ , because something finally happens.

 

Early into the school year, an assembly of all students and staff is called and the Headmistress announces that one of the three Wish Stones kept under lock and key in her own office has been stolen.

 

Sherlock is so excited he jumps out of his seat and Molly and John have to pull him back down, and then actually kind of shove him under the seats a bit and throw a bookbag over him just to be safe, because now the teachers are looking/

 

A missing Wish Stone was nearly as good as buried pirates’ gold.

 

It was still a treasure hunt.

 

-

 

The missing Wish Stone, an egg-shaped and smooth piece of opaque gemstone, is one of three. 

 

Many years ago, probably in during Medieval times, back in the Dark Ages, there was a period of time where it was actually, supposedly, completely dark. 

 

Some entity called the Endless Dark (no need to get creative, when the thing you were referring to was endlessly blocking out the sun) had come out of nowhere and encircled the world. And without the sunlight, things were slowly but surely dying.

 

Sherlock pauses his history research here to contemplate the creatures at the bottom of the sea. Surely they were completely undisturbed by this period of time, never having seen the light of day in all of their existence to begin with. Unfathomable depths, indeed.

 

Then he dives back into the book.

 

So people had tried everything, from the illiterate villagers with their chants and wards, to the Eastern ceremonies and summonings, to the Anglican pomp and circumstance, and so on and so forth. All the world attempted to rid the sky of this endless night, and no one one was putting a dent in it.

 

But finally, three sorcerers banded together and in one massive spell that took all the magic that all three of them possessed, they managed to seal the creature (was it a creature?) in the mountain beside the one the Oracle resided in (of all things).

 

The three Wish Stones were, then, essentially very concentrated pieces of magic, and each could grant its wielder a wish. It is assumed that these wishes function much like those granted by a genie or other capricious spirit, meaning there would always be unintended and usually unforeseeable consequences.

 

But, together, the Wish Stones, if all placed together into the side of the mountain where the Endless Dark was sealed, would unlock the seal and set the entity free.

 

As such, the Wish Stones were a precious symbol of the good heart these three noble sorcerers had in sacrificing themselves for the greater good, and kept guarded in the Academy of Magic and Sciences, passed down from head to head. 

 

Sherlock was in  _ awe _ at what a terrible security plan this all was. How easy it would be for someone to unleash such massive chaos! There were so many ways around it! And why not use up one or all of the eggs, on inane wishes, or why not have someone  _ sacrifice _ their well being to make a wish in order to use one of them up, so that it became  _ impossible _ to place the stones back into the seal because it was no longer a full set? Or did the stones not disappear when you made a wish? The book didn’t say.

 

But, he supposed it said something, about the community of sorcerers at large, that it hadn’t occurred to anyone to even try to unleash such chaos onto the world, in these past several centuries since the Endless Dark had been sealed. 

 

That made sense, he supposed.

 

So. 

 

Sherlock hatches the perfect plan to sneak into the Headmistress’s office while Molly and John create a distraction, and afterwards gives a riveting summary of his findings while Molly and John hang on to his every word. 

 

The culprit is clearly someone attending the Academy, else a staff member. Sherlock is busier than he’s ever been, trying to find motive within the faculty and student body.

 

But then, before he does, another egg (stone, whatever) goes missing, and it’s like  _ Christmas. _

 

Now they have motive (the perp needs three to unleash the Endless Dark. If he’d only been after a wish, he would have used it already).

 

Now all they have to do is lie in wait for the third egg to go missing, and catch the perp at the scene of the crime.

 

But then.

 

But then nothing turns up for a while, and Sherlock has no choice but to wait.

 

In the interim, he dreams of mermaids, reads a book about the kraken, works at creating a species categorization for sea monsters, and considers the legacy of Vikings some more.

 

Still, nothing happens, and Sherlock is miserable on the very last day of school. 

 

Not just because the crime has been held in limbo, but because Molly and John are both travelling over the summer, and Sherlock will hardly hear from them. 

 

-

 

That summer, Sherlock gets his first kiss.

 

In a way.

 

-

 

A few weeks in, his parents make him pack up, so they can all go and spend a week or two with family friends.

 

“The Adlers have a yacht,” his mother tells him, trying to be consoling. Then she says something apparently funny only to his father, about teenagers and moodiness, and Sherlock tunes her out, stomping up the stairs so he can pack. 

 

A  _ yacht _ is not the same as having John and Molly to go on adventures with.

 

Sitting on the yacht, though, is not a bad experience all in all.

 

Sherlock is leaning over the side, watching the waves and looking for signs of life, ignoring the music and snacks and gossip circulating behind him.

 

A girl in a white dress sidles up to him and watches him watch the water for a bit. He decides he might as well say something very Sherlock of him (John’s terminology) so if she decides she doesn’t like him she can leave him alone immediately.

 

“What are you looking for?” she asks him.

 

“The nine daughters,” Sherlock says. He points at the waves.  “There’s dúfa, and hefring, and if we get further I’m sure we’ll see dröfn as well.”

 

She raises an eyebrow.

 

“You’ve read the Prose Edda?” she asks. 

 

Sherlock side-eyes her, then nods. 

 

She takes that as an invitation to join him, and comes closer to peer over the side of the  _ yacht _ to look at waves. 

 

“Oh, there’s a man-of-war as well. Much more interesting than naming waves, don’t you think?” she asks.

 

“Or maybe it’s Ran,” he says. She snorts, and it’s so unlike the rest of her ladylike and attractive demeanor, that it startles a smile out of him.

 

Maybe the trip won’t be so boring after all.

 

They chat for a bit, and then the girl, Irene, sighs and says, “you don’t know how to talk to girls at all, do you?”

 

Sherlock frowns, because maybe that’s true, except he and Molly get along fine, and he and John get along fine, and it’s really most everyone else who seem to not like him much, for forever unknown reasons.

 

She only takes his lack of answer as confirmation, however, and sigh again.

 

Then she looks over her shoulder before turning back to the water, and saying very low under her voice:

 

“We keep scuba gear on the yacht too, if you want to take a dive.”

 

He stares.

 

She quirks her brow, and Sherlock thinks, he’s got to learn how to do that. It’s a very impressive expression.

 

“There’s supposed to be sea turtle nests around this area,” he says by way of answering.

 

She gives him a proud smile, nods, and then runs off, gesturing for him to follow.

 

-

 

The two of them sneak into their scuba gear and into a little life boat, and then they’re only a few kicks away from the natural habitat of the rare blue-topped turtles that Sherlock has only ever seen pictures of. 

 

It’s even better than he thought it would be.

 

The water is clear, murky, and then clear again when they go deep enough, and Sherlock decides to forgo chasing down a young otter because he is determined to see this little sanctuary for the blue-topped turtles.

 

The goggles Irene came up with are lit, and cast a soft, ethereal glow over the little clearing of sand circles and algae mountains where the turtles drift in and out, the swirls on the backs of their shells completely mesmerising.

 

Sherlock gasps, and then Irene kicks through the water, appears right beside him. She waves a hand in front of his face, and then to the turtles, motioning, signing, that he shouldn’t stare too long. He’ll get hypnotised, and that would be bad.

 

Sherlock nods, he knows all this. He understands the safety rules.

 

Still, though, it’s hard not to stare.

 

He lets himself sink down closer and closer, but very slowly so as to not disturb any of the ocean life, entranced by the soft glow of the sea asters and swaying, luminescent blooms bordering the nests.

 

Baby turtles poke their heads out, and then hide back under the algae again, and the large ones float to and fro, the blue swirls on the backs of their shells turning and turning

 

and turning

 

turning.

 

All of it a vivid royal blue swirled across an ultramarine.

 

which grows darker and darker

 

until it’s almost black.

 

-

 

Sherlock coughs and splutters and jerks up into a sitting position, nearly braining someone in the process. His abdomen  _ hurts _ , and he curls in on himself again, and leans over to the side to cough up some more water. 

 

“Are you  _ trying  _ to kill yourself?” comes a girlish voice to his side. He glances over to see Irene, looking like a drowned rat, wiping her arm across her mouth. It couldn’t have been easy for her, especially not since he’s gotten so tall the past year. 

 

He coughs some more.

 

He is most definitely  _ not _ trying to die.

 

“No. Thanks for saving my life,” he adds, casual as anything. He does mean it though. He is nowhere near done.

 

He’s got to improve those snorkelling spells. The sinking worked  _ perfectly _ , probably a little too perfectly, which must have made it harder for her to haul him up and out once he lost consciousness. He’d have to add in a fail safe. The pressurizer seemed to work too, but with the suit’s built-in one, it was hard to tell. 

 

All in all, it was a worthwhile excursion.

 

By dinner time, any trauma from the near drowning has passed. Irene’s uncle happens to be a physician and checks Sherlock over for water in his lungs or bacterial infection and declares he will be fine. Sherlock is starving, after that whole kerfuffle, and eats so much he nearly makes himself sick from that.

 

The rest of the summer is not nearly as exciting, and Sherlock is glad when school starts up again.

 

-

 

Only two weeks into their fifth year, the third egg goes missing and it’s all so  _ exciting. _

 

But then it’s over surprisingly quickly, and Molly finds her soulmate, and, actually, it’s all very anti-climatic.

 

It turns out Jim Moriarty (Fletcher) had gotten bored and decided to steal the Wish Stones for kicks and figured if he managed to get all three, why not try for reaching the mountain too? Hell, why not set loose the Endless Dark! He evidently did not give this a whole lot of thought. 

 

And then it turns out that he is Molly’s soulmate? Or something. She asks him out on a date right then and there, he agrees, and then it’s all done and done with.

 

Sherlock is, frankly, disappointed.

 

But life goes on.

 

He perfects his snorkelling spell and starts tinkering with pressure-counteracting magic so he can do deeper dives, sure to come in handy when he goes searching for hidden treasure. First he has to find a map or a source that points to some pirate’s loot, sure, but that was just details.

 

And then once he  _ did _ find a map, he figured the likelihood of loot being lost at seas was, statistically, higher than it having been buried somewhere still excavatable. So, hence the diving spells. 

 

Halfway through fifth year, it becomes increasingly clear to Sherlock that this is the year where everyone is starting to move on. From childhood, mainly.

 

For one thing, everyone starts dating (and Sherlock really doesn’t see the point), and they continue to do so through the rest of school.

 

Over the next two, three years, John cycles through girlfriends, and Molly and Jim become “a thing.”

 

Three people becomes five and Sherlock ends up joining the others on many excursions, and it’s not quite the same, but it’s not so bad either, because everyone seems happy enough. 

 

Molly asks him about it once, and he gets no clarity from the conversation.

 

“Sherlock, don’t you get lonely?” she says after they’ve all left the movie theater one day. He sat by himself in the center of the furthest row in the back, while Jim and Molly and John and Sarah sat in the row in front of his, with a few seats between each couple. 

 

He blinks at her, baffled.

 

“Why would I be lonely?” he asks. “I have you and John. You’re my friends.”

 

She nods, considering. 

 

“But friends aren’t the same as having a significant other,” she continues, then backtracks. “I’m not saying everyone needs to have a soulmate to be happy, but. But there is something wonderful about the idea of an all-consuming love, isn’t there? To have someone to belong to at some point, who becomes your home. Everyone needs a home. Someone who  _ sees _ you, who knows all of your, and accepts all of it.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t get it, and that is evident all over his face.

 

Dating isn’t better than friends, he thinks. The only discernible difference, from what he can tell, is that they seem to kiss a lot, and he doesn’t want to do that. There seems to be an awful lot of people who want to do the kissing part too, without the other parts. The talking and the belonging and the adventures. He never knows what to say to them, so he stays away from it all. 

 

Molly gives him a crooked smile, and shakes her head.

 

“You don’t get it,” she says for him. “Of course you don’t, no, of course you wouldn’t.”

 

She doesn’t say it like she’s disappointed (he’s heard that tone from girls, too many times) she says it like she’s contemplating this fact, and coming to a conclusion.

 

“You’ve always been meant for more than just belonging to one person, you’re meant to do something bigger,” she muses. 

 

Then she turns to him again. 

 

“You’re going to be great, Sherlock, you will. You already are; you’re brilliant. I really believe that,” she says.

 

He still doesn’t get what she is saying.

 

In fact, he feels a little uneasy about her words now, because they remind him of his Quest.

 

-

 

He contemplates returning to the cave, one last time before he leaves school, then decides against it.

 

Sherlock feels he’s obtained the skills and brains and know-how to go his own way in the world, and he doesn’t need his big brother looming over him telling him what to do. A little voice in his head tells him it’s not the same thing at all, because every self-respecting sorcerer has a quest, and all the best ones that have gone down in history have the grandest Quests. All recorded down word for word. 

 

Sherlock tells that little voice to shove it. 

 

He’s joined a message board sometime during his sixth year and taps into the resource of other diving fanatics, including even professional treasure hunters, from around the world. He reads with envy about some of the expeditions some of them have taken, and takes a mild interest in the bounty hunting aspect of shipwreck scavenging. They trade tips on how to better reinforce their equipment, and what to watch out for in what waters. 

 

It’s not until the week after graduation that Sherlock really gets to put any of this information into action, however.

 

There’s one diver, a particularly gregarious one, organizing a dive in search of a missing Spanish-American expedition ship that supposedly went under before it got out very far. New information about deep sea currents suggests that if it exists, it is probably located off of Greece, somewhere between the island of Crete and the little Gavdos beside it. This is all thanks to the ultra-niche researchers who compile intricate, meticulous charts of tedious work, recording sea currents and plotting movement and so on. The dive takes place in three days, and the divers are planning to comb the area for at least a week.

 

Sherlock signs up. 

 

-

 

Twenty hours later, he steps onto a ship dock where he sees three other people moving equipment around on a boat with a garishly styled ‘SALLY’ emblazoned on the side. They spot him watching, and notice the equipment Sherlock himself is carrying.

 

One of the two men of the group hops off the ship and stops in front of Sherlock, looks him up and down, then offers a hand in greeting.

 

Sherlock notices the G. LESTRADE printed on one of the man’s straps. Username: SilverFin599, he remembers. He takes his hand.

 

“You must be Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade says. “Welcome aboard.”

 

Sherlock nods. “Thank you.”

 

He hops onto the boat where Lestrade introduces the other two divers, Sally Donovan (whom the boat is named after) and Phillip Anderson (who owns the boat) and they trade stories and go over the ship specs and a rough game plan.

 

Donovan gives Sherlock a very skeptical look, and makes a lot of noise about how she doesn’t think it’s a good idea to take a first timer on a dive, that she doesn’t want to deal with a potential accident and the trouble that comes with it if Sherlock gets injured or, worse, vindictive. 

 

Lestrade claps Sherlock on the shoulder and vouches for him, because they two of them have actually traded a lot of tips over the past two years, and Sherlock’s actually given him some life-saving spell advice in the past.

 

Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge Lestrade’s vote of confidence much, but he does step up and tell the group that he’s found a balance of diving spells that will allow him to dive about 2,300 feet. Practically half a mile in distance, but in depth, only so if you round up very,  _ very _ generously.

 

All three of them fall silent.

 

Anderson gapes.

 

“That’s—that’s impossible, Sherlock,” Lestrade says with a laugh, even though Sherlock’s expression and tone were so serious that it was obvious he wasn’t trying to tell a joke. 

 

“The world record’s only 1,000 feet, and even that isn’t sustainable for long,” Lestrade continues. “Not without some vessel.” 

 

Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“I haven’t done it yet—” he says, and Sally rolls her eyes and scoffs, adding that  _ of course he hasn’t,  _ which he ignores. “But I’ve done tests, numerous ones, and simulated the pressures and conditions, and I know the spells should work. They will hold.”

 

Lestrade looks like he wants to trust him, but it’s much too risky and dangerous and Sally is right—Sherlock is a first timer here. 

 

They’ve scarcely gone out on the water, and already they’re in an argument.

 

Lestrade later takes Sherlock aside to tell him that he believes him, but now might not be the best time to try diving so deep. He should get used to this first. And if the new information was correct, he likely wouldn’t need to go so far down to find the ship anyway, which was the whole reason a dive could even be organized.

 

Sherlock isn’t happy, but he isn’t angry either, and he concedes.

 

-

 

There is something creepy and wonderful, being out here far away from anything else, the only sounds of life the ones echoing your ears.

 

The four of them cast their safety communication spells to alert each other if one of them runs into serious danger, and then it’s one by one into the water they go.

 

Down and down and down.

 

Sherlock ignores the paltry marine life high in the water, this time, on a search for something else entirely. 

 

If he goes low enough through these half murky waters, and still there are schools of fish, it may signal some carcass, or, at best, a deteriorated vessel—the bones of an old ship from a failed expedition, carrying gold and coins and trunks full of clothing and books eaten away by the saltwater, withered away until the vessel is nothing more than a playground for passing by fish. 

 

They’re out there for half a day before everyone gives in and gives up, very begrudgingly, and only when Donovan insists they should rest and eat because they’ll have all week with weather this good. 

 

They laze about on the boat, nearly catatonic, as the vessel drifts back to shore.

 

Lestrade is sitting a few feet from Sherlock, shielding his eyes from the sun as he stares out over the water.

 

He keeps stealing glances at Sherlock. Sherlock pretends not to notice.

 

“You wouldn’t—” he looks away and laughs. He’s embarrassed. Then he musters up the courage to ask, anyway.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a brother, would you?”

 

That surprises Sherlock.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock answers affirmatively.

 

Apparently Lestrade takes the answer like a punch to the gut; he looks positively stricken.

 

He doesn’t say anything of substance for a good long moment. Words like “That’s—” and “I thought—” and “how—”  and “haven’t—” keep leaving his mouth but not strung together with other words to form a proper sentence or coherent idea. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to tell him either.

 

Finally, he asks, “How is he?”

 

“I can’t say,” Sherlock replies. “I haven’t seen him in years either.”

 

Lestrade just nods and nods and nods. They run out of things to say, and part awkwardly once ashore.

 

-

 

They don’t find anything on the second day either, but on the third—on the third day, Sherlock finds a dead body.

 

He’d gotten up early that day, both frustrated and excited by yesterday’s lack of findings and the potentiality and possibilities this new day held.

 

It was an hour and a half still before the group was to meet up, so Sherlock went ahead to take a dive off the beachside cliffs and explore the surrounding area. It was always nice to swim amongst the fishes, and explore the many reefs of the world, but then a flurry of movement signaled something strange, so down down down Sherlock went, searching.

 

First he saw the hair, then an arm bent the wrong way.

 

Then he saw that it was all connected to a body, with feet tied to a rope tied to a big cement block.

 

How cinematic.

 

Curious, and just the slightest bit grossed out, Sherlock examines the rope, and then spells it to take the whole thing up, corpse and concrete and all, together. 

 

When he pops up back out of the water, he sees a small crowd has formed, evidently seeing or hearing his laborious efforts to raise the body.

 

The police are here too, and behind them, Lestrade and the two other divers, staring in gruesome shock. 

 

Sherlock gasps for breath and then addresses the officers.

 

“It’s a murder,” he says. “Staged to look like the work of a mafioso, but in reality a textboook crime of passion. You can check the bruises for a match for death by blunt force trauma, my guess is an old metronome, as she was a pianist and that was at hand. Caught an affair going on in the household, but not her’s. Likely an employer’s, who had a lot to lose, hence the over-bludgeoning. He killed her out of fear, shame.”

 

“He?”

 

“Else a very strong woman, 6 feet tall at least, going by the angle of the bludgeoning. More likely a he,” Sherlock says, pulling himself out of the water and leaving the police to collect the body. 

 

“And how did you know she was a pianist?” someone else asks.

 

Sherlock shrugs. “Her hands, her nails, the grooves on the bottom of her shoes.”

 

“Going by her dress, she certainly wasn’t an au pair, nor a maid. Half the households here employ music teachers for their children, do they not? You hear it in the streets every evening. Piano teacher.”

 

The police say he needs to be available for questioning, but, thankfully, he won’t need to be immediately detained.

 

When he approaches Lestrade and the others, they look at him with a bit of awe, a bit of fear, and a bit of disgust.

 

“Maybe you should become a detective, Sherlock,” Lestrade jokes.

 

Sherlock makes a face at him.  He’d much rather be a treasure hunter.

 

-

 

The rest of the salvaging trip is a wash, because none of them find a single thing that even suggests the ship is in the vicinity. Sherlock never risks trying his 2,300-feet level spell during the search, but he figures that can wait. 

 

No need to unnecessarily rile up two other members of his newfound diving community when he can wait a few more days and test it out himself—because the reefs surrounding the area are rich with life and well worth examining. 

 

And thus, Sherlock has decided to extend his stay on the island of Crete. 

 

This is an island of vacationers and vacation homes, of transients, and of those looking to start over far, far away from who they once were. 

 

As luck would have it, he makes a friend in a middle-aged sailor named Angelo who is sitting out on his boat fishing, one day, and Sherlock learns he is really a marine biologist who likes to sit out on the water with a hookless line in the water on his days off, thinking and doing absolutely nothing. Angelo is in a permanent state of vacation. 

 

He offers Sherlock something akin to an internship, meaning Sherlock gets full access to the labs and helps with some of the experiments, and Angelo doesn’t pay him a thing. 

 

The lab is not large, but contains a wonderful mishmash of precision instruments and charts and data and specimen samples and experiments. 

 

Some days Sherlock spends all day in here, and other days he splits it between the lab and the ocean. Here, it’s just him, and Angelo, and Sluggie.

 

Sluggie is a little sea slug, pitch black, to best absorb light, who just budges around his fish tank in the corner, trying to find a comfortable position.

 

"It just wants a nice warm spot to take a nap," Angelo says.

 

Lots of sea creatures seem to have no purpose except to exist. Some of them get frightfully large, too, because the deep ocean can accommodate it. Sluggie is only three inches long, but give it a century or two, and it'll grow to be as big as the island. 

 

And when Sherlock isn’t in the lab or on the sea, he sleeps off the day in a little flat owned by a little old lady who rarely shows herself, and shared with a backpacker named Sebastian Wilkes. Sebastian is only here for a week, and has been extremely tolerant of Sherlock’s untidiness.

 

Sherlock had only brought a single duffle bag on the trip (aside from the diving equipment), but the longer he stayed, the more his things inevitably made it around the room and onto the walls. The longer he stayed, the more information he needed to jot down and the notes turned into mind maps and organizational charts and so on. 

 

The centerpiece of it all is a re-creation of his sea monster species chart, which hangs on the wall adjacent to the window. 

 

Several cultures have mythologies that talk of world snakes, for instance, but going by the descriptions and texts, they are not all the same creature by different names. There are fictional ones too, and Sherlock makes it his job to sort out the real monsters from the ones dreamed up by man. 

 

Three months and another corpse later (a very old corpse, a cold case that happened to wash ashore, which he happens to help close), Sherlock has gone for a swim in the ocean and is emerging from the beach when he spots someone familiar.

 

She stops too, and they sort of stare at each other.

 

Molly nervously raises her hand to wave, possibly because she can’t believe the coincidence (Sherlock forgot to tell John and Molly where he was going, he realizes) and she looks all red and sunburned. He wonders if she’s only just arrived and has spent the last few weeks in some other sunny place, or if she’s been here for days already and he just wasn’t aware. He’s too far from her right now to tell.

 

Sherlock pushes his wet hair back from his face and waves back. He looks around and realizes he’s forgotten to bring a towel, so used to being in the scuba suit instead of swim trunks. 

 

As he walks over to her, he realizes a third thing—he’s missed Molly. He’s had people to talk to, and research and excavations to keep him occupied, but it’s not the same, it’s not like having someone who cares about you to confide in, to just walk side by side and  _ be. _

 

“Molly,” he greets, once they’re in conversational distance.

 

Molly just stares.

 

“Molly?” he asks, frowning now.

 

“Oh!” she starts, and finally meets his eyes. 

 

He smiles and steps toward her, arms out, to give her a hug, and she kind of throws her arms open and fumbles a little, like she’s forgotten how hugs work and, okay, weird, but they end up meeting in the middle somehow anyway.

 

She mumbles something into his shoulder but he can’t quite make out the words.

 

“What?”

 

(Okay, it’s probably worth noting, that, from Molly’s perspective, this is Sherlock, who she hasn’t seen in months and months on end now. And he’s spent these last several months swimming and hauling ships and corpses and other equipment around, and grown another few inches. His shoulders, which she is actually now touching, are very broad now. He has always been a pretty one, but now he is miles and miles of sunkissed skin and lean muscle and is drenching wet. She is thinking:  _ this?? This is the soggy little boy I pulled out of a creek 13 years ago?? Dear Lord in Heaven. _ )

 

“Nothing,” Molly says, pulling back to give him a smile. And there’s the Molly he remembers. 

 

“Just so surprised to see you,” she explains. “We thought you might’ve run off to become a sailor or a pirate or whatnot, but I didn’t know you’d be here!”

 

“I joined a dive to try to salvage a sunken ship, but nothing came of it. Then I met a marine biologist doing some interesting work, so I ended up staying a little longer,” Sherlock replies in that no-nonsense way of his, and they start to walk. “Are you hungry?”

 

She nods. He can see now that she actually hasn’t been here long. She’s actually fresh from a boat ride over, and hasn’t been in Greece long either. Likely just stepped off the plane the day before. So he suggests a restaurant with a view, and they head over.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

 

She swallows down her calamari and reaches for her napkin.

 

“Vacation,” she says. “Gap year.”

 

“I decided to take a year off, see the world, you know, normal things. I’ll start pre-med in the spring,” she says, and takes a drink of water. “This island’s been on my list of places to see ever since third year, you know.”

 

“Third year?” Sherlock asks. No, he didn’t know.

 

“You don’t remember?” she rummages through her bag, and then pulls out a little pocket watch to set on the table.

 

Oh.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “You...still have that.”

 

“Yep,” Molly says. “Lovely poem, and a lovely watch. I figured if I was traveling across Europe, now was the perfect chance to stop by.”

 

Sherlock had forgotten about the poem and map entirely. He reaches for the watch and flips it open, running his finger over the engraving of the map. X marks the spot. It’s right above the Idaean Cave, the supposed birthplace of Zeus. He hasn’t been there yet. 

 

He returns the watch and sees Molly is watching him.

 

“Do you want to go?” she asks. 

 

“Yes.”

 

-

 

They agree to meet for lunch tomorrow before venturing out to the cave, and when they part ways Sherlock realizes how much he has taken for granted that the three of them, John, Molly, and Sherlock, were joined at the hip throughout their school years. Even before that, really.

 

The spontaneous meeting reminds him, too, to call John.

 

His phone’s been neglected, sitting in a duffle bag somewhere, battery dead, because he really only needs to communicate long distance with Angelo these days, who prefers a spelled pager.

 

It goes to voicemail, but John hasn't changed his number, so Sherlock leaves a long message and advises John he is unlikely to return a reply in a timely manner, but will do so happily, eventually. 

 

-

 

They're trekking toward the cave on foot and Molly has these massive sunglasses on that cover most of her face and perch adorably on her nose. They continue where they left off with yesterday's conversation, catching each other up on the past few months. 

 

Then, out of the blue, Molly asks, “What was your Quest? You never said.”

 

Sherlock goes quiet, but they continue to walk.

 

“I don't know,” he finally says. 

 

“What?” Molly whirls around, and pushes her sunglasses down so she can get a better look at his face. 

 

“I don't know,” he repeats. “I went into the cave and botched it all up.”

 

Molly waits, and he takes his time. 

 

“I said something stupid, and so the Oracle never gave me my Quest, mentioning it was supposed to be a grand one, and who knows whether that was meant to be sarcastic.”

 

Sherlock sighs.

 

“I'm sure it wasn't. Sarcastic, I mean.”

 

“You don't know him like I do,” Sherlock mumbles under his breath.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. And it doesn't bother me,” Sherlock says. 

 

They walk some more.

 

“Mine was all mixed up,” Molly says after a while. Sherlock glances at her but doesn't say anything. 

 

“Apparently I was meant to take out Jim. As in, stop him from unleashing the Endless Dark. Remember?”

 

Sherlock nods. 

 

“Not on a date. I'd sort of accidentally added that part on my own.”

 

Sherlock nods again. He's not sure if she's trying to make him feel better or if they're just talking about mucking up Quests.

 

When you think about it, though, it's actually really quite funny. 

 

He snorts, and Molly stops walking to level him a look. Which only makes him burst into laughter.  

 

She slaps his arm, but she's laughing too.

 

“Only you, Molly Hooper, could be destined to stop an agent of chaos and do so with the power of love and friendship,” Sherlock says solemnly. 

 

Molly groans.

 

“Sherlock  _ Holmes, _ ” she says warningly.

 

He grins.

 

“How is Jim, anyway?” 

 

She gives him a half shrug. 

 

“Good, I hope. We're on a break. Gap year. You know,” she says. 

 

Sherlock doesn't know. He nods anyway. 

 

“No, of course you don't,” Molly says with a snort, and Sherlock is a little bit relieved that they haven't changed.

 

They make it to the spot marked on the map, and it turns out to be a summit with a breathtaking view. From here, the rest of the island and the water surrounding it look like a glittering, striking little image. Like a miniature world you could pick up and fit in the palm of your hand. They stand for some minutes, taking it in. Then Molly glances at Sherlock. He's fidgeting.

 

“You wanted to go into the cave, didn't you?”

 

He nods. He came prepared. He brought climbing gear.

 

-

 

The drop into the cave is not so difficult, and the majority of it is high enough that the water doesn't come in.

 

They take an easy turn around the space and Sherlock is fascinated by how old the rock is but a little disappointed that there aren't any interesting creatures, until Molly points at something in the water.

 

“Um. Sherlock?” she says. She sounds nervous. “What is that?”

 

He looks over at where she is pointing and sees something with hair bobbing up and down in the water. He holds in a sigh. He hopes it's not another corpse. He's starting to wonder whether these dead bodies are statistically normal.    
  
Sherlock walks over and shines a light toward it to get a better look.   
  
Oh.   
  
Definitely a corpse.   
  
But not human.   
  
He glances at Molly, whose eyes are wide.   
  
"Hold this," he says, passing her the light. He grabs the rope they brought it in and spells it to create something of a lasso that shoots out straight and hooks the unfortunate creature in, then pulls.   
  
It doesn't take long for him to haul it out of the water, and then they see that it is a goat.    
  
Slit at the neck and left to bleed out.    
  
They slowly turn toward each other with a very knowing look.   
  
Animal sacrifice at the altar of a pagan god? It's more likely than you think.   
  
"Sherlock," Molly says slowly.    
  
"Hm?"   
  
"I don't think you should get in the water."   
  
"I wasn't going to."   
  
"Alright, just checking."   
  
They continue to stand for some moments, in mild shock and unsure of what to do. It could just be a prank, after all.    
  
"Maybe let's leave," Molly suggests.   
  
Sherlock sets down the goat.   
  
-   
  
The walk back is slow, as if they are deliberately determined to not run off screaming, because that would mean they were possibly trapped in some B horror film storyline.   
  
"Anything else strange happen on the island lately?" Molly asks conversationally, like they didn't just stumble across some cult hotspot that hadn't been properly cleaned up.   
  
"No," Sherlock responds, and frowns.   
  
His pager goes off, and Sherlock looks down at it. It's Angelo.   
  
_ The tide's all off. 20ft waves! Why?? _ __  
  
Sherlock glances off to the side, where they've still got a great view of the coastline. The waves are choppy, and not what the weather predicted. There goes their crab watching expedition. There goes Angelo's quiet fishing Saturday.    
  
Molly sees him watching the waves, unsettled even though his expression betrays nothing.   
  
"Not normal?" she asks.   
  
"Not one bit," he replies.    
  
"Molly," he starts haltingly.   
  
"Sure, let's go."   
  
-   
  
Back in the labs, Sherlock heads straight toward the back wall, throws a handful of sand and cup of saltwater, and waits for the weather map to finish forming up along the wall.   
  
"Molly, Angelo. Angelo, Molly," he says by way of introductions, gesturing to neither of them and leaving them to make their own, proper introductions.   
  
"Nice to meet you," Molly says, sticking out her hand to shake. "I've heard your name and have guessed you do a bit of research off the island, but beyond that he hasn't given away much."   
  
"I haven't heard about you at all, but I'm glad! A young lad like him should be dating, not spending all his time with fish."   
  
"I’m not dating him—"   
  
"Sherlock, what's wrong with the weather?"   
  
"I'm your intern, not God," Sherlock shoots back. The little sand and water map simulation shows a big storm that seems to have formed right off the island, and certainly wasn't on any weather map the day before, or the day before that.    
  
"The tides are obviously a result of this storm, but this storm came out of literally nowhere," Sherlock says. "And not by natural causes."   
  
Molly blinks. Angelo sighs.    
  
"Is it some kind of dark sorcerer then? We haven't had one of those in centuries. This is supposed to be a peaceful island, a peaceful time," he says.   
  
Molly and Sherlock look at each other, remembering the goat.    
  
"Do you think the storm is the result of a spell?" Sherlock asks.   
  
"Thunder and lightning and witches and things, right?" Angelo replies.   
  
"Usually a sign of a Summoning," Molly adds. That would be in line with the animal sacrifice as well.   
  
How foreboding.   
  
-   
  
They alert the police, who put a forensics team on the cave, and then at Angelo's insistence, head out for dinner.

 

"He's a growing boy, you know," he tells Molly, who nods politely. "But he can never remember when to eat."

 

They barely make it a few steps outside when they hear screaming coming from the beach. Before either Molly or Angelo can comment, Sherlock has already run off towards the screams.

 

When they catch up, Sherlock turns to them with an odd expression on his face. A few feet away are screaming tourists and beachgoers—and a dead goat.

 

Angelo makes sort of a queasy sound and worries out loud whether he's lost his appetite. Molly and Sherlock look grim.

 

"Who would want to do this?" Molly says.

 

"As usual, Molly, asking all the right questions."

 

-

 

They eat dinner anyway, but it's impossible to keep the topic of conversation away from the animal sacrifices and potential disaster looming over the horizon.

 

“If I wanted to cast a dark and horrible spell, how would I go about it?” Sherlock wonders aloud.

 

“I know what you mean, Sherlock,” Angelo says. “But it’s probably best not to wonder that in public.”

 

“What sort of terrible thing would I want to unleash on the world?” he continues, undeterred.  Angelo smiles nervously at the waiter. Molly happily accepts the breadsticks.

 

“What does he stand to gain?” Sherlock asks. “ _ Who _ would stand to gain?”

 

“A politician?” Molly throws out there. 

 

“A real estate developer,” Angelo joins in. “They always have these villainous rich guys trying to buy up land, forcing the little guys who live there out through some dastardly plan. Happens in the movies all the time.”

 

“But there are no elections to win here and no land to sell,” Sherlock says. 

 

They shrug, and munch on their carbs.

 

“We have to go to the bookstore next,” Sherlock says.

 

-

 

They’re crossing the boardwalk when something close to deja vu hits. The sound of screaming.

 

No, this is the fresh sound of fear, not some stirred up memory. Molly and Angelo are rooted to the spot as they see, in the distance, something big and black with whip-like tentacles spring up from the water, and wrap itself around a boat, squeezing so hard that it cracks.

 

It  _ cracks _ and so viscerally it feels like they can hear it from a distance. Maybe it’s the sound of seagulls taking flight. Maybe it’s not.

 

Beachgoers have basically been cleared out, sprinting out of the place out of a healthy sense of self-preservation, but Sherlock—

 

Sherlock?

 

He’s moving toward the coastline and Molly grabs his arm, signals to Angelo to grab his other.

 

“Sherlock!” Molly yells, pulling. “You don’t run  _ toward _ sea monsters.”

 

He’s about to protest, but she continues.

 

“You stay back, and you  _ make a plan _ . Don’t go rushing in without knowing what you’re going to be doing!” she says.

 

He nods. That sounds reasonable. That makes sense.

 

He is tingling all over. Not out of fear, but  _ excitement. _ Every nerve, every cell of him is vibrating with a  _ need _ to go out there and meet the creature head on. 

 

This is what he was meant to do.

 

-

 

Faith Smith mans the bookshop on the island, and she likes Sherlock, so she happily looks up their inventory for him and tells him they’ve not sold anything on dark magic or summoning or sea monsters in the last six months. 

 

“You should check the library too,” she tells them, and then picks up the phone to make a call.

 

The librarian on the other line answers in the negative as well, so Faith shakes her head.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, making to leave.

 

“The better question is,” Faith interjects, “how did he get the goats?”

 

It is a good question indeed.

 

-

 

On the way to Mr. Stamford’s estate, because he owns a lot of land and a lot of goats, probably the only goats on the island, Sherlock shares some of his findings.

 

“Why this? Why now?” Sherlock asks. “This doesn’t seem to be the result of a meticulously crafted devious plan. But he didn’t buy the book once he got here, so he must have already had one. He planned this, but he isn’t a particularly brilliant sorcerer or anything of the sort.”

 

“I’ve texted the police to narrow the search to people who have recently arrived on the island, but that doesn’t do us much good this time of year,” Sherlock says.

 

Mr. Stamford welcomes them onto his grounds and lets them in.

 

“Yeah, I’ve had three goats go missing. But animal sacrifice? How horrible. How archaic,” he says, baffled. 

 

Sherlock runs around, examining the scene of the crime, and Molly and Angelo try to help but aren’t sure how much help they’re really providing.

 

“Not rich!” Sherlock suddenly declares.

 

“Who?” Mr. Stamford asks.

 

“The only people on this island are wealthy vacationers or retirees, much like yourself. Or those who are only here in passing, to visit or stay a short while. Or they’re of the third type, those who are running away and don’t know how long they’ll be here,” Sherlock says. “He’s not a vacationer, he’s a transient. This narrows it down.”

 

Then he blinks and pauses.

 

“Three?”

 

“What?” Mr. Stamford asks.

 

“Three, you said  _ three _ . Three goats,” Sherlock insists.

 

“Yes, yes I did,” he says.

 

Sherlock looks down at his phone, and fires a text off to the police detective he’d been in communication with.

 

He starts walking north, pointing at the shore.  

 

“The third goat washed up near there, not long ago,” he reads from his phone. “Judging by where the carcasses washed up, and the time….”

 

He trails off, pacing, then stops and looks up.

 

“Molly.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Your watch.”

 

She starts to take off her wristwatch, but Sherlock stops her.

 

“No, no, not that, the pocket watch, do you still have it?”

 

“Yes, of course.” 

 

She leaves the watch be and then digs out the pocket watch to hand over to Sherlock. He takes it and flips it open, resuming his pacing.

 

“Your voice, your eyes. Captivated,” he murmurs. Stops.

 

“This spot doesn’t mark some romantic rendezvous,” he declares. “This is the summoning spot.”

 

“ _ What? _ ” Molly is aghast.

 

“This is a spell. It’s  _ the _ spell,” Sherlock says, texting rapidly. “He must have sacrificed the goats from the cliff above the cave and then tossed them into the water from this spot. Hence where they washed up and when. It must have happened early this morning. We’d just missed it by a few hours!”

 

“Your  _ voice _ , your  _ eyes—this _ . This is the spell,” he declares. “With this, he controls the monster he summons with his voice and eyes. He needs to look out onto the sea, and speak his words.”

 

“Are you—Sherlock, are you sure?” Angelo asks.

 

Sherlock falters, if only for a moment, but then composes himself.

 

“I have to be,” he says. “I can  _ feel _ it.”

 

-

 

They’re running toward the beach again, because Sherlock has deduced that whoever summoned the creature must have been near the docks at the time—they’d  _ just missed him _ yet once again. He was beating himself up over the fact, over just missing the perp twice today, despite not having even known of his existence the first time, but consoles himself with the fact that the island is small. It was bound to happen.

 

When they get there, the beach is chaos. The tourists who still haven’t left are a noisy, terrified bunch being herded off to safer spaces. They can’t ferry people onto the mainland for fear of what’s in the waters, and there was never a sufficient air evacuation plan for the island. 

 

Off to the side, Sherlock sees the police are bringing in military grade missiles meant for combat, and spelling them to hopefully counter the monster.

 

“Not rich, not rich,” Sherlock mutters, scanning the crowd. The summoner had to be in here  _ somewhere _ , hiding in plain sight, trying to make use of the chaos for cover.

 

The water thrashes off in the distance, but closer now, and it’s clear the monster is approaching.

 

“What could he possibly want?” Sherlock mutters.

 

A threat? This close to land? This random?

 

He spots him.

 

No, too quick, Sherlock turns in a circle, slowly, in one spot, and scans again. He saw it, he  _ saw it _ , but it was too quick and he couldn’t process—

 

Ah.

 

There.

 

A man in sunglasses, clean clothes but worn. Not rich. Nearly old enough to be a retiree. The giveaway? He looks far too calm in this sea of chaos.

 

Sherlock steps toward him, slowly, trying not to attract attention. He catches the eye of one of the police detectives, but signals nothing.

 

One step, two.

 

The man turns.

 

They stare straight at each other, and he seems surprised. Sherlock looks tense. Ah. He realizes he’s been made—and tries to run.

 

“Grab him!” Sherlock yells, going in for a tackle himself. 

 

He reaches the man and gets cuffed in the head for his trouble. They grapple, and in the tussle, the man’s sunglasses get knocked off. 

 

Sherlock catches a glimpse, and he goes still. They’re red; a deep, unnatural red. A dead giveaway. The man stumbles away from him during Sherlock’s shock, but the police are on him and he can’t get away.

 

But instead of being worried or protesting his innocence in vain, he laughs, and he laughs and he laughs and he laughs.

 

“Why did you do it?” Sherlock asks, because wouldn’t anyone ask?

 

“You’ve nothing to lose, you’re here because you’re out of a job, you have no family. You’ve likely no savings. But what did you have to gain?” he asks.

 

“You’re right,” the man says as he’s being dragged away. “I had nothing to lose, so why not give it a try? Summon a terrible monster, and wait it out. My plan was to see which noble sorcerer would try to take it down, which great magician would sacrifice himself for a worthier cause. And then? Well, legend says there’ll be a wish out of it, won’t there?”

 

The Endless Dark, Sherlock thinks. Everyone knows that story, but no one knows where it came from. Or what it was. No guarantee stopping it would produce a Wish Stone either. 

 

“So you summoned the kraken instead?” one of the police officer asks.

 

The man grins, but no matter what they do, he says nothing more.

 

The kraken? Sherlock thinks.

 

“Can’t be the kraken,” Sherlock says. “Not the real one, the  _ hafgufa _ resides in the Greenland Sea. This is too far south of its habitat—and too small. A fully formed, full sized kraken would easily fill this sea three times over and the waters levels would be rising. Goodbye Venice, goodbye Crete. Some of Libya and Croatia too, I expect.  We’d be far underwater by now.”

 

Sherlock pauses.

 

_ Fully formed. _

 

Could the writhing mass of darkness they caught a glimpse of be, perhaps, a related creature. A much younger one, still in its infancy?

 

He thinks back to his chart, and then to the Endless Dark. It wasn’t a sea monster, no, but what had it been?

 

A big, dark mass that enclosed around the world. Not like the World Serpent, who’d grown so large it encircled the globe, long enough to fit its tail into its mouth. 

 

The Endless Dark hadn’t signaled anything. Hadn’t  _ done _ anything. It didn’t attack, it didn’t devour. 

 

It slept.

 

And just by being there, it deprived the life beneath it access to the sun.

 

“Wait!” he yells.

 

Sherlock jumps in front of the police force, arms out. 

 

“Don’t shoot. Let, let me try something,” he says, backing away from them, walking backwards to head toward the docks, but still putting himself in the line of fire.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Molly calls out after him.

 

“Angelo, I need your boat,” Sherlock says. The marine biologist jogs toward it without question, and Molly follows. Sherlock keeps backing up, not confident the police won’t fire as soon as it’s out of the way.

 

_ “It just wants a nice warm spot to take nap,”  _ Sherlock says. 

 

“What?”

 

“I can get it away! Trust me.  _ Please _ . Let me try this first.”

 

The moment the missile is lowered, Sherlock turns on his heel and bolts toward the water. He has a running start, and just makes it onto the quickly departing boat Angelo and Molly are already on.

 

“Sherlock, what are you planning?” Molly asks urgently.

 

“Go, go!” he directs Angelo. “We need to get out farther. Not so close that you’re in danger of being attacked, but far out enough that the water’s deep.”

 

“Sherlock!” Molly yells. 

 

“I can get it away safely, Molly,” Sherlock says.

 

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

 

He doesn’t have time to answer her question. 

 

Angelo comes to an abrupt halt, as the sea monster thrashes and one long, unfurling tentacle becomes visible in the distance. Sherlock finishes suiting up, and then dives into the water.

 

-

 

Molly remembers the first time she and Sherlock met. 

 

They’d found him shivering and crying in a ball by the creek bank and all but picked him up to walk him home. He was soaked to the bone, and John and Molly and helped him shove his things into a big plastic bag, and he took a bath, and then sat at Molly’s kitchen table wrapped in a big, fluffy blanket.

 

He looked like an angel.

 

She made the three of them cocoa, from the powdered stuff, because even that she could do by herself (and she knew how to add vanilla to make it perfect). And then slowly, slowly, they got him to open up, until the three of them were giggling into their mugs and promised they’d play together every day, forever. 

 

He was what Molly’s father called “having your heads in the clouds,” because he saw the little things no one else saw, and so he saw the possibilities no one else could either. 

 

He was special, Molly thought, and maybe the other kids couldn’t see it, but one day everyone would see it.

 

-

 

Sherlock breaks into the surface of the water and underneath, it is darker than he’s ever experienced.

 

He fumbles to throw open a light that will hover before him as he swims, and approaches the mass of darkness from the side. He thinks of naming it Sluggie 2.0.

 

He’s careful to keep his distance, approaching it in a roundabout way, but from the lights he throws out and the movement of the mass, it looks like it’s turning. It looks like it’s noticed Sherlock, and is watching him.

 

He’s got its attention now, so he readies himself—and then shoots off in a burst, prompting it to  chase.

 

They speed off away from the island, and the darkness, so much bigger than Sherlock, so much bigger than any one human, quickly closes the distance—

 

—and then Sherlock makes a steep dive.

 

The darkness follows him down, too. Easily.

 

_ I know somewhere you can go! _ Sherlock yells at it, even though he can make no sound, even though the thing can’t hear. 

 

He throws out a strand of lights instead, so dazzling that the darkness takes pause for a moment. The lights draw out shapes, showing waves, and then two spots sinking deep, deep under. Then the ocean floor, where there are faults where magnum-hot geysers spew perpetually. Endless space to grow into, and a nice warm spot to take a nap.

 

The darkness wriggles as they descend, watching the little theater scene play out, and Sherlock hopes it understands. Else, that wiggle means it’s toying with its food and preparing to eat Sherlock. That would be most unfortunate.

 

Sherlock can feel the water pressure weigh down on him now.

 

They’re 1,000 feet down, but his spells keep it from feeling unbearable.

 

_ I can take you part of the way, but then you’ll have to make it on your own! _ he calls out, even though the darkness can’t hear.

 

When he gets to 2,000 feet, it gets difficult.

 

He knows he can push another 200 feet. At 300 feet, it’ll get  _ really  _ difficult. 

 

Sherlock slows his descent, and tries to get the darkness to continue on without him.

 

It doesn’t work. He tries to swim laterally, and the darkness just follows. He swims west, and it goes with him. East, and the thing continues to be his shadow. He tries a big circle, and it follows suit.

 

They’re at 2,100 feet now, and he has little wiggle room left.

 

And he’s tired.

 

He knows he still has to make it up all the way back, and half a mile is a long, long way to go.

 

He throws a ball of light out, and makes it sink.

 

_ Down _ . He tries to tell it. The darkness doesn’t move. He draws it out again.  _ Please. _

 

_ It’s a long way to go, but it’s worth it. _

 

Sherlock dives, another ten feet, fifteen, twenty. It follows him as they sink another hundred feet, and he slows. He stops. 

 

If he goes up now, will it follow him again?

 

He waits.

 

He can’t see anything anymore, and it’s only due to the foresight of designing his suit’s magical implements that he can even tell down from up anymore.

 

They wait.

 

He can’t have come so far, only to not know what to do. Sherlock can’t let the darkness follow him back, it’d eat everything in the way. He can’t even risk getting too close to it. 

 

Time passes, but he can’t tell how much.

 

Then. The darkness moves.

 

Sherlock hasn’t moved, but it’s gotten impatient. It nudges itself a bit closer, and Sherlock doesn’t move. It comes a bit closer again, and Sherlock holds his ground. 

 

The thing is so big that Sherlock hadn’t realized they’d been travelling with such a distance between them, so close it seemed, like a big puppy. But actually, they’ve been at least a hundred feet apart, haven’t they? And now it’s coming closer.

 

And closer.

 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them, when he realizes there’s no difference.

 

The darkness continues to move now, not haltingly like before, but swiftly, closing the distance.

 

And then it goes right past him.

 

Sherlock blinks. 

 

The darkness glides right past him, down below, down, down, down.

 

He watches it leave, for a good long moment. Until the darkness, with his lights still glowing, becomes smaller, and smaller, and harder to see.

 

_ Goodbye, Sluggie 2.0. _

 

-

 

Sherlock doesn’t break the surface for an hour. Two hours.

 

After that, Molly stops watching the clock. She’s taken off her watch, and put it away. The watch, the pocket watch, and her phone are all in her bag, under her seat, as she waits on the deck.

 

She and Angelo don’t try to talk. 

 

She’s gone so numb that when the water ripples again, she doesn’t let herself hope.

 

Except, it’s not a fish.

 

It ripples, then bubbles, then a head pokes out and it’s  _ Sherlock _ and she can’t tell him it’s her screaming or Angelo but they throw out the rope ladder and haul him up.

 

There is so much hugging and crying. 

 

The three of them are out on the water, out far from the island, having chased the dark spot in the water as closely as they dared, so as to not lose Sherlock.

 

He claws at his mask and Molly helps to pull it off and he takes a long, shuddering breath, before collapsing back, his head in her lap. 

 

His eyes are barely focused, taking in the sky.

 

“I’m tired,” he says. And then he passes out.

 

-

 

Sherlock sleeps the whole boat ride back, and then some. 

 

Molly holds him until he wakes, and then wipes her long-dried tears off her face with the back of her hand.

 

It’s past midnight now, and the moon is big and full. Angelo had already docked the boat and went inside. He covered each of them with a blanket before he did.

 

Sherlock blinks awake, and Molly gives him a long suffering sigh. And then a smile. It’s the saddest one he’s ever seen. 

 

She stands, and then helps him to his feet as well. He shivers and pulls the blanket tighter, realizing that she’d cast a warming spell over them when they sat on the boat floor, and now that they were walking through the sand, there was a bit of night breeze. 

 

Something has changed, he knows that, just like in fifth year.

 

“Sherlock,” she says, and he stops.

 

“I’ve loved you since I was five, you know that?”

 

He can’t even say he didn’t, because he’s slow when it comes to these things, maybe, but he isn’t so mean to pretend he doesn’t know her, to brush off her most sincere truth. 

 

“Of course you don’t,” she says instead, and her voice sounds weighed down, heavy, with tears she’s never shed. She tries to laugh. It doesn’t work.

 

_ I love you, too, _ he wants to say, but he can’t get the words out, because he doesn’t know if he can get it  _ right _ and he couldn’t bear to disappoint her. Not like this. Not in this.

 

Molly, who’s dreamed of love since she told him so when she was 15, when she was 10, no, 5, when they met, or even earlier. He knows, he’s always known, how important this is to her, and how she’s looked at him like he was perfect, even when he wasn’t, and told him he didn’t have to change.

 

But he doesn’t know how to do any of those things. He doesn’t know how to love with a soul-consuming passion, to sweep her off the feet, to want to plan dates where they stare into each other’s eyes and this, when it comes to this, he doesn’t know who to be.

 

He can’t say it, but she smiles at him anyway. She makes herself smile like it doesn’t matter, and then gives him a hug.

 

“It’s fine,” she reassures him. “I don’t mean anything by it. I mean that, I don’t expect anything to change. We’re still best friends, Sherlock. We’ll always be.”

 

And then she walks away.

 

He doesn’t say anything, and she walks away.

 

-

 

Sherlock doesn’t see Molly again on Crete, because she takes the next ferry out and then from Greece she catches a flight to Austria, and he’s still here on this tiny island.

 

He’s sitting on the boat with Angelo, and they both drop lines into the water with no hook and no bait and no expectations. He can’t bring himself to explore today.

 

Angelo notices his melancholy, and doesn’t push.

 

_ It’s not fair,  _ Sherlock thinks, to have come so close to completing his Quest, but not come close at all. Was this ever part of it? He’ll never know. Not unless he goes back and asks Mycroft. But that all seems so trivial now.

 

It’s not fair.

 

It’s not fair to  _ Molly _ . 

 

Sherlock sits up with a start.

 

“What?” Angelo asks, at the abrupt movement.

 

It’s not fair to Molly, Sherlock thinks, that she’s always been there for him, but he refuses to be there for her. That’s not how it works. That’s not even how friends work.

 

It’s an epiphany.

 

It’s so obvious and, pedant, even, but for Sherlock, it’s an  _ epiphany _ .

 

Molly has always, always been there for him. And he’d be a coward if he continued letting her believe a lie. That she loved more than he did. That her first love would be forever unrequited. That Sherlock didn’t  _ understand _ didn’t know so fully and deeply and personally, how she  _ feels _ .

 

He did. He knew, because he felt the same way. 

 

And maybe he was slower to realize it and it took longer to define it, but he’d known, too, for years and years and years.

 

She saw him show no interest in everyone and refuse to participate and she  _ misunderstood. _ It wasn’t that he didn’t feel, that he didn’t want, or didn’t care. It wasn’t that he didn’t take interest. There was just never anyone for him besides Molly. 

 

“Angelo,” Sherlock asks.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Can you take me back to shore?”

 

-

 

Sherlock packs up his things and spends a day at the library, filling out forms and applications. Then he shoots off a couple of emails, one to his family, so they can know to expect him in the next few days.

 

-

 

Three months, Molly finds a cute little apartment close to campus, moves her things in the week before the semester starts, and takes a deep breath, happy and content with where she is in life.

 

She shares the two-bedroom flat with Annie, another pre-med student, and they’re worlds apart in terms of personality, but get along fantastically.

 

She and John have been in touch, and she had lunch with him and his girlfriend (Mary, this time) just the week before.

 

Molly hasn’t seen Sherlock since Crete.

 

She spends the week before school shopping for furniture and furnishings with Annie, and exploring the city, creating a wishlist of pubs and restaurants to check out. She’s more than ready to get back to learning, though, when classes finally start.

 

It’s the perfect change of pace, Molly thinks as she sets foot on campus that first day. After the tumultuous gap year she’s had. She feels like a new person, really. All that self-actualization and seeing the world and all.

 

“Molly!”

 

She’s even come to terms with her feelings for Sherlock. It wasn’t nearly as terrified as she thought it would be, telling him that she loved him. After all those years.  _ All _ those years. It felt…

 

Like a relief, really.

 

“Molly!”

 

Even though she still thinks of him sometimes. And why wouldn’t she? He’s bound to pop back to London sometime, eventually. They’re still friends. As haphazard as his lifestyle is, he wouldn’t just  _ never return. _

 

“ _ Molly!” _

 

She even thinks she hears his voice, sometimes…

 

A large hand lands on her shoulder and she yelps, turning around, nearly braining some tall stranger his her books and—

 

—she takes in the curly hair and the sky blue eyes with just a hint of green, like seaglass, and the barely-there freckles. 

 

“Sherlock?” it comes out little more than a whisper.

 

He smiles at her, nervous expression fading to relief. Her expression, on the utter hand, is more confusion than anything.

 

Part of her thinks perhaps she's willed him into existence, and isn't that just sad? Convincing herself she'd gotten over him had only ever been an exercise in futility. 

 

“How are you?” he asks, clearing his throat. He smooths back his hair, and she notices it's as curly and unruly as always, though gone are the cherubic cheeks. He has cheekbones to die for now. He's out of his sea scavenging clothes and out of his school uniform and she takes in smart-casual Sherlock with his dark shirt and jacket and charcoal trousers. His blue scarf. 

 

“Good,” she finally answers. “I've been good. Ejat about you? You look good. Last time I saw you, you had nearly died, so.”

 

She stops.

 

“I'm sorry, about that. I really am, I didn't mean to,” she shakes her head, this is all coming out wrong. “I shouldn't have done that. You were in no state to have to deal with that, and I'm sorry.”

 

“No, no Molly,” Sherlock says, and now he’s the one that looks nervous. His hands haven't left her shoulders, and he pins her in place with his gaze now.

 

“Molly Hooper,” he says very seriously. 

 

“Yes..?”

 

“I love you,” he says. She gapes. People are politely trying not to stare now. He takes a deep breath, and repeats, “I love you.”

 

“As a friend, yes, but not just as a friend. I love you, and have for years,” he says, and barrels on, leaving no room for interruption. “I know I've seen oblivious, but not because I didn't understand or didn't care. Because I was terrified, that maybe I wouldn't be able to do it after all. And that if love was what you wanted to find, you deserved someone who could give you the best of it.”

 

“I was relieved, even, when you told us you were destined to find your soulmate. If he was meant for you, he  _ had _ to be perfect. I would never be perfect,” he says. He trails off, because her eyes are wet now, and this wasn't how he thought it'd go. 

 

Really, he hadn't thought it through that much to imagine how it would go.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” she says, voice shaky with emotion. 

 

“Yes?” he replies with trepidation.

 

“You had better kiss me, right now,” Molly says.

 

He hesitates only briefly, then brings his hands up to cradle her face, softly, tilting her head up toward him.

 

He watches her eyes, her lips, and leans down, still slowly, and presses his lips to hers.

 

Just a short, soft joining of the lips.

 

And then he does it again.

 

And before he barely parts from her, again.

 

Then a longer one, and he parts his lips. Nips her lower lip. Another kiss. And another.

 

He understands, now, why people are so interested in kissing. 

 

By now, Molly seems to have realized he's not going to run. That he wants to stay. With her.

 

She tangles her fingers in his hair because she's always wanted to do that, and kisses him deeply, running her tongue along his lip before they part. He looks flushed and breathless and perfect.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” she asks. “Will you go on a date with me?”

 

He smiles, and they've done it all backwards, but neither of them cares, because for them, it's perfect.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The next in the series is supposed to be a Mycroft-centric companion piece if I can bring myself to write it


End file.
